“That would depend on how useful the information is.”
Brian licked his lips. “Half a crown.”
“I just gave you that.”
Brian smiled, his teeth as stained as the gray cobblestones beneath their feet. “So ye did. A shilling, then.”
“It’s a steep price.”
“It’s valuable information.”
“Very well,” Ian said, digging another coin from his pocket.
“Ta very much,” Brian said, fingering the coin eagerly before tucking it into his jacket pocket.
“Well?” Ian said, leaning over him.
“Come closer. The walls have ears.”
Ian bent down so his ear was near the man’s mouth. The aroma of cheap tobacco, stale whisky, and undigested cheese and onion pie wafted into Ian’s nostrils.
Brian lowered his voice to a whisper, nearly drowned out by the rumble of steam engines as a train pulled in and out of Waverley Station.
Ian made him repeat what he said until he was satisfied he had heard correctly.
“You’re right,” he said, straightening up. “That was worth another shilling.”
“Always glad t’be o’ service.”
“I wonder if you would do me a small favor.”
“Name it,” Brian said, licking his lips.
Ian looked around, and spotted a sleek young man loitering near a lamppost, but when he glanced back a moment later, the man had disappeared.
“It concerns misinformation.”
“How so?”
“We have reason to believe one or more of our sources has gone sour—”
“An’ ye’d like my help findin’ out who it might be.”
“Just keep your ears open, and report anything you learn back to me.”
“Will do, chief, will do.”
“Of course I will remunerate you for your time.”
“A’ course. I kin always count on you, Detective.”
Ian pressed another coin into the beggar’s hand, but as he walked away, he wondered whether he had made a mistake in trusting the man. Brian had never failed him, and yet . . . It was unlikely, but he had to entertain the possibility that his oldest informant was no longer what he seemed to be.
When Ian arrived at police chambers, the door to DCI Crawford’s office swung open as soon as Ian entered the main room.
“Well,” Crawford said, lumbering toward him, “was it murder most foul?”
“Most definitely,” Ian replied, hanging his cloak on the rack near the front entrance.
“Hamlet, first act, I believe,” Crawford couldn’t resist adding, with a smug little smile.
“Well done, sir.”
Crawford appeared to have been waiting for his return, because as soon as Ian disposed of his outerwear, the chief beckoned him into his office.
“Any suspects?” Crawford said, sinking heavily into his desk chair.
“None so far—I know little about the victim as yet,” Ian replied, taking the chair opposite. His relationship with the chief had become relaxed enough that he no longer waited for an invitation to sit when summoned to Crawford’s office.
“Yet she’s a friend of your aunt’s?”
“They attend the same weekly séance.”
“Indeed?” Crawford stroked his whiskers. “My wife goes in for all that, but between us, I think it’s bosh and bunkum. They have a medium, I suppose?”
“They do indeed—a Madame Veselka.”
“Mysterious and exotic foreigner, claims to communicate with the dead?”
“Exactly.”
Crawford sighed. “Well, I s’pose it’s harmless enough, as long as she doesn’t milk them dry.”
“I have no idea how much Madame Veselka charges for her sessions.”
“You’d best keep an eye on your aunt, see she doesn’t succumb to a charlatan.”
“My aunt has means. And a level head, I believe, even in regards to mediums.”
“A very sensible woman,” Crawford said. “And a damn fine photographer. Please tell her that we may again be requesting her services.”
“I certainly will.”
“Good,” the chief said, twisting a piece of string between his fingers, a sign that he was anxious. “Now then, I’d like to discuss what we talked about yesterday.” He rose and paced behind his desk, glancing out the window to the street below, where the sound of horses’ hooves and wooden cart wheels on cobblestones competed with the sound of children’s voices. Glancing at the clock above the filing cabinet, Ian remembered Sergeant Dickerson mentioning that his younger sister was to have a half day at school, though he had forgotten it until now.
As if reading his mind, DCI Crawford turned to him and frowned. “Where is Dickerson, by the way? Haven’t seen him all day.”
Ian’s first instinct was to cover for the sergeant. “I sent him off to interview friends of the deceased,” he lied.
That seemed to satisfy the chief. “I see,” he said, plucking at a stray whisker. “I expect you’ll want to be getting on with your investigation, but as to this other matter . . .”
“I have reason to believe there is to be a concentrated criminal action very soon.”
Crawford sat down again and leaned forward over his desk. “Do you know—” he began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come in!” he bellowed.
The door opened to admit Sergeant Dickerson. His cheeks were ruddy; he was perspiring and out of breath.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he began.
“How did your interviews fare?” said Crawford.
“Sir?”
Ian turned and glared at him. The detective’s back was to Crawford, so the chief couldn’t see his expression, but the bewilderment on Dickerson’s face only deepened, as if someone had requested that he recite The Iliad in the original Greek.
“The murder inquiry, Sergeant,” Ian said tightly. “Have you concluded all your interviews?”
Dickerson finally caught on, nodding his head vigorously. “Oh, yes, sir! I wen’ straightaway, like—”
“Good man,” Ian interrupted.
“Could you discuss that later?” said Crawford. “Detective Hamilton was just telling me something of interest on another matter.”
“A’ course, sir—whatever ye say.” Dickerson loosened the collar of his uniform, wiping sweat from his still-damp forehead.
“Please, have a seat,” said the chief. Dickerson complied, perching on the edge of the captain’s chair nearest the door.
Ian repeated what Brian had told him.
“So there’s t’be a big robbery?” Dickerson said eagerly.
“I presume that’s what it is,” said Ian, “though the details are still somewhat vague.”
“Do ye know when?”
“Within a fortnight.”
“And how is it that you came by this information?” asked Crawford.
“I’d rather not reveal my source at this time.”
“Even to me?” the chief said, frowning.
“I don’t want to compromise him in any way, lest he be found floating in the Water of Leith,” he said, referring to the main river snaking through Edinburgh before emptying into the Firth of Forth.